


Turning in a Tightening Gyre

by Lyrstzha



Series: Concentricity [1]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, First Kiss, M/M, Missing Scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-24
Updated: 2005-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:42:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrstzha/pseuds/Lyrstzha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein things which were driven out of temper begin to return slowly to true, and Angel and Wesley have the worst timing in the whole history of ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning in a Tightening Gyre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolfling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfling/gifts).



> Set during and in between "Lineage", "Destiny", "Harm's Way", "Soul Purpose", "You're Welcome", and "Origin". A few lines of dialogue are lifted verbatim from canon in places where I needed a transition.

"We do on stage things that are supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else."—Tom Stoppard

 

Angel is clutching his stomach when Wesley comes to check on him. He's been working on a theory for the last decade or so that epiphanies cause severe nausea, but he blames it on the cyborg's use of the Staff of Devosynn when Wesley asks, because he's not sure he can explain his revelation without citing events that Wesley doesn't remember.

Wesley's eyes look dull and somehow hollowed out, and there's a muscle jumping slowly in his jaw. He comes to sit beside Angel, who tries not to stare at the fine tremors in Wesley's long fingers. Once upon a time, Angel thinks, he could have maybe put an arm around Wesley's shoulders, stilled those shaking fingers in his own large hands. Once upon a time the idea of touching Wesley didn't make him feel like he was taking advantage of the re-written past.

Angel has the horrible certainty that Cordy would smack the back of his head and call him useless before shoving him out of the way and hugging Wes herself. He figures he's no good at comfort, but he at least knows that Wesley likes to feel useful, so he asks the practical questions first. Who and what and why get Wesley talking no matter what, and Angel likes that he knows that.

Even after they establish that Wesley doesn't know anything much about their attackers, he tries to keep Wes talking about them anyway. "They're all trying to bring us down. The perception is that we're weak."

Wesley's tone is flat and threadbare when he answers, and maybe this isn't helping as much as Angel hoped it was. "No. The perception is I'm weak. That's why they went for me."

And that isn't something Angel can leave alone; it's the marrow of his epiphany. "They're wrong. You do what you have to do to protect the people around you. To do what you know is right, regardless of the cost. You know, I never really understood that. You're the guy who makes all the hard decisions, even if you have to make 'em alone." He stops himself before he can give away anything more specific.

Angel wants to say something about forgiveness, but there's no context for that anymore. The best he can do is to tell Wesley to go and get some rest.

Wesley doesn't come back to Angel's office before leaving the building. When Angel wakes in the afternoon, there's a crisp, fresh memo on his desk requesting time off. Wesley's signature stutters across the bottom of the page in red ink. The sharp edge of the page slices a shallow cut across the pad of Angel's ring finger when he puts it down. It seals over almost instantly, but Angel could swear that he can feel a lingering sting all day.

 

*********

 

Angel feels a bone-deep conviction that there is something terribly off-kilter in his world, as though the universe is listing slightly, but maddeningly, to the left. He tries to make Gunn understand. "He won the fight, Gunn...for the first time. Doesn't matter if the cup is real or not." When the look on Gunn's face suggests that this isn't really translating well, Angel sighs and tries again. "In the end, he...Spike was stronger. He wanted it more."

"Angel, it doesn't mean anything." Gunn's blanket denial somehow makes the feeling of wrongness worse.

"What if it does? What if it means that...I'm not the one?" Angel looks over at Gunn, not sure what response he's hoping for, but certain that it isn't the one he finds.

"Whoa!" Gunn shoves himself upright with only the slightest sway and shakes a finger warningly at Angel. "Ain't even gonna entertain that damn fool idea. Ain't even takin' it out for coffee and a quiltin' bee. Don't get me wrong, I get on fine with Spike, but after all you've been through, no damn cup of Mountain Dew is gonna—"

Angel quickly raises a hand to cut him off. "No, no. You know what? You're right. I feel better about the whole thing. Really." He stands and lays a hand on Gunn's shoulder, using it to steer him towards the door. "And after that knock on the head, you should really get some rest."

Gunn eyes him with concern evident in his mismatched pupils. "You sure, boss-man? Could stay and talk a bit more." He resists Angel's guiding hand just enough to register the idea of protest. This, more than anything, tells Angel just how much Gunn's head must hurt right now.

Angel tries on a smile for size. It must fit well enough, because he can feel Gunn's shoulder relaxing slightly under his hand. "You want to talk about my feelings? Are you sure that's just a mild concussion you've got there? I'm okay; you go on home." He nods and keeps smiling as naturally as he can. It still feels like his face is going to crack.

Gunn lets Angel push him gently through the door. "You take care of yourself, too. Seen you look better." Gunn offers Angel a parting smile and begins to gingerly make his way in the direction of the elevator.

Angel closes the door behind Gunn and leans against it. He draws in a deep breath that sends twinges across his still-tender ribs. He spends a moment convinced that he's got a slightly dislocated joint somewhere, but no amount of stretching or twisting turns one up. He thinks of calling Wesley on the intercom to ask if temporarily patched holes in the fabric of reality could possibly make him feel like this. He takes a few steps toward his desk before he remembers that Wesley isn't in the building. Wesley's on leave. Angel turns this thought over in his mind, worrying it like a scab. He realizes with a lurch that he isn't even sure if Wesley's still in L.A.

Before Angel knows it, he's out of the building and inside his Viper. It still smells annoyingly of Spike, but the feeling of being in the driver's seat is less jarring than the feeling of being in his office, so he goes with it. The engine purrs under the slightest coaxing twitch of his foot, and it's the closest thing to rightness he's felt all day. When he pulls out of the garage, the late afternoon sunshine filters through his necro-tempered windows, and the feel of it, which still never gets old, leeches a little more of the uneasiness away.

City blocks flicker past without making much of an impression, and Angel would swear that he isn't headed anywhere in particular until he finds himself parallel parking between two SUVs carefully. He leans over to look out of his passenger-side window and finds himself staring up at Wesley's apartment building. The last light of the fading sun is slipping away, and it blazes on the glass of Wesley's window. Angel watches the drawn curtains, waiting long past the fall of full darkness for the faint flush of lamplight. When he finally decides that it isn't going to come, the sense of loss is so sudden and unexpected that Angel finds himself gasping for breath he doesn't need and resting his forehead against the steering wheel.

 

*********

 

The world feels less like it's made of sandpaper when Wesley comes back. He returns just in time for the Vinji and Sahrvin demon clan peace talks, the very thought of which makes Angel's eyes throb. No amount of language practice seems to improve Angel's tongue clicks, and the entire office still reeks of the camel that Harmony got from the caterers.

When Harmony has her vamp-dusting episode across the truce table, it's actually not that much of a shock given Angel's day so far. The only thing that really surprises him is that she apparently meant well.

After Harmony and her annoyed victims clear out of his office, Angel sighs at Wesley. "And again, _this_ is who you picked to be my secretary?"

Wesley folds his arms and frowns back at Angel. "I think it's amply demonstrated by today's events that there were worse options in the steno pool. Besides, as I've said before, I felt that a familiar face would ease your transition here."

"Wes, I don't think Harmony could ease anything for anybody. Ever." He makes a slashing, negating motion with one hand for extra emphasis.

"Fair point." Wesley tilts his head to the side slightly and looks at him in that keen way that always makes Angel feel a little naked. "So you kept her on as your secretary because...?"

"Because..." _Because you picked her for me_ sounds so senseless and ridiculous in his head that he doesn't want to say it out loud.

Maybe Wesley hears it anyway, because his gaze softens and he smiles with a small, lopsided quirk of his lips, and turns to go without another word.

 

*********

 

"Angel! Can you hear me?" Wesley's voice is urgent and tight with worry, and his hands are warm on Angel's face. Angel blinks back into consciousness and leans into his touch without thinking.

"No," Angel answers, still slurred and slow with the lingering effects of the dead parasite's narcotic poison. "Because you're not here. I'm dreaming."

Wesley's sigh is fond and relieved, and his arm slides securely under Angel's bare shoulders. "I assure you, you're awake. Spike warned me that you'd been injured by some sort of demonic parasite. How do you feel?"

Angel frowns up at Wesley and ignores the question completely. "Not awake. Can't be in a world where Spike rescues me unless it's a nightmare. Or a hell dimension." Angel blinks. "Wait. Is this a hell dimension?"

The breath that Wesley exhales sharply sounds suspiciously like a repressed chuckle to Angel. "I'm afraid not," he says gravely. "Though one never really knows for certain around here. I suppose it's always possible that instead of casual Fridays we have hell dimension Fridays. Perhaps we just haven't seen that memo yet."

Angel doesn't want to smile, not after the day he's had, but he's pretty sure that the twitching feeling on his face means that he is anyway. He closes his eyes and soaks in Wesley's warmth. He makes a mental note to remember to feel guilty about letting himself take this comfort from Wesley later; it's still taking advantage, even if he's too hurt and tired to resist it right now. "You're just trying to make me feel better."

"Is it working?" Angel can hear the smile licking across Wesley's voice like a small fire. Wesley pulls Angel to rest more comfortably across his lap.

Angel sighs and lets his head roll inward to press his face against Wesley's shoulder. The familiar smell of Wesley's skin drowns out the acrid stench of the dead creature in the corner. "You know, it kind of is. But I don't want to feel better yet, because _Spike_. So stop that."

"All right," says Wesley, but he doesn't. His fingers smooth circles onto Angel's back, while his other hand gently examines the wound on Angel's chest and seeks a match in the pages of one of his template books with a quiet, focused rustle. It feels oddly like coming home.

 

*********

 

When the call comes that Cordy's awake, Angel automatically assumes that he and Wesley will go to the hospital, and no one questions this. They're halfway there before it occurs to him that he could have brought the others along, too. It isn't that he doesn't love Fred and Gunn and Lorne; when he thinks about a perfect world, he imagines the time right after Connor was born, when they were all one happy family. He tries not to even think the words 'inner circle', but he can't help it.

Having Cordy back makes it seem like things might finally be all right again at some point, as if the world is bound in a manageable compass again. Even when he tells her about the bargain he made with Wolfram and Hart, it feels like something he can deal with. But Cordy thinks he's lost his way, and she knows about these things.

They stay up most of the first night talking about one thing or another, because Cordy doesn't want to sleep any more than she already has. Finally, when the sky is beginning to pale, Cordy says, "What _does_ everybody think happened, if they don't remember what really went down?"

Angel blinks at her from under furrowed brows. "I don't really know."

Cordelia stares back in disbelief. "You never _asked?_ How could you never ask? I get why you wouldn't want to jog Connor's memory, but what about Wes and Gunn and Fred and Lorne?"

"It just seemed...you know," Angel shrugs awkwardly. "Better to let it go."

Cordy's eyes narrow. "Better to let it go, huh?" She points a finger at Angel. "Better for who, exactly?"

"Uh," Angel tries, gesturing noncomittally with one hand. "Everybody, really."

There's a moment of pointed silence before Cordy ripostes with, "Yeah, I can see that. You and Wes seem all chummy again, just like old times. It must have been a lot easier to swing that when he didn't remember why you wouldn't be."

Angel flinches slightly, stung. "It was. But you know what? I'm pretty sure that's as much of a relief for him as it is for me, even if he doesn't know it."

Cordelia's eyes drop to the floor, unreachable and unreadable. Her fingers knit against each other for awhile before she answers softly, "I'm pretty sure of that, too." She looks back up at Angel. "I just think you should remember that sweeping things under the rug doesn't really resolve anything. I mean, crap, didn't you ever read "The Cat in the Hat"? Moving the stain isn't the same thing as cleaning it." When Angel just looks lost, she grins at him wearily.

"It's resolved for me; I forgave him. We've moved on." Angel tries to make his tone final.

"That whole tango taking two thing? Totally applies here." Cordelia sighs at Angel in exasperation. "I _know_ you, Angel. Better than you know yourself, probably. I've seen you good and I've seen you evil, and it never drove me away. And I know that you need friends around you who can say that, too."

"I've got you," Angel answers, in the same tone another man might say 'my cancer's in remission'.

A shadow passes across Cordelia's face. "You know I love you." She stands up without breaking eye contact. "And I didn't even have to have my brain altered to make that happen." She finally turns to go, but stops at the door to add, "I want you to remember how good it feels to know that about me, next time you think things are better this way."

Then she's gone.

 

*********

 

After Fred is rooted out of her own body, it's only natural that everyone is devastated. Thinking of all that vivacious sweetness and keen intelligence crushed aside to make room for Illyria is sickening for anyone who loved her, but it's the worst for Wes.

Angel can barely stand to watch Wesley drinking himself insensate. These days, Wesley reeks of despair; every word that comes from his mouth sounds as though it hurts him. Angel carefully plans to be harsh with everyone for the sake of fooling the Circle of the Black Thorn, but he finds himself snapping at Wesley more in frustrated desperation than anything else. Letting Fred die was awful enough; it gnaws at him that Wesley is slipping through his fingers now, too.

Some days, Angel thinks Cordy was right. After all, she usually was. That doesn't stop him from being horrified when Wesley breaks the Orlon Window and releases true memory into the immediate area. A lot of that horror is for Connor, but there's plenty that isn't. Angel didn't think Wesley's face could erode any further after Fred died, but then it does. There's Connor to worry about right then, so Angel has to let it go for the moment.

When he finally has time, it's night again, and the building's slowly falling quiet. He finds himself peeking around Wesley's office door. The heady miasma of old scotch soaks the air. Wesley's skin is starkly pale in the faint glow of his desk lamp, but the shadows under his eyes are deep wells of bruised darkness. For a long, awkward moment Angel simply stares tensely with no idea what to say at all.

Finally, Wesley asks, "Connor?"

Angel hastily pushes the door shut behind himself before answering. "He seems fine. I'm not sure if he even..." He trails off, frowning. Angel steps nearer to the desk, looking closely at Wesley's unfocused eyes and sniffing faintly. "You're _really_ drunk."

"As a newt," Wesley mumbles agreeably. His hands sprawl across the dark wood of his desk like broken things. "Not even sure you're here, actually."

"I actually am." Angel shakes a finger at him accusingly. "But you're not gonna remember anything I say tomorrow, are you?"

Wesley's head bows. "No, but I don't need to be drunk for that," is all he says, but his tone is devoid of anger.

Angel flinches anyway. "I'm...well, I'm sorry about that."

Wesley's head tries to snap back up, but it's more of an unsteady lurch. "No! I should be the one to...," he stops short, his mouth obviously trying to shape 'apologize' without success. "Be sorry," he finally manages.

Angel steps even closer. "Are you?"

Wesley makes a ragged noise in his throat---wordless, but still eloquent in anguish---and flings himself to his feet. Angel leaps to catch him as he stumbles, and after a flurry of confused tangling, they sink to the ground with Wesley half across Angel's lap.

Wesley shudders in Angel's arms. "Always sorry," he chokes out.

Angel curls around him more tightly, and lays his forehead against Wesley's. "No, it's okay. We're okay," he whispers. He closes his eyes and simply rests there for a moment. "We're okay," he finally repeats, his voice all relief and wonder enmeshed in breath.

Wesley stirs, his head shifting in the crook of Angel's elbow. "Now I know you aren't really you," he murmurs against Angel's cheek. His mouth finds the corner of Angel's, then slides home. The press of his lips is a little clumsy, and they burn with salt and scotch. Angel doesn't mean to kiss him back, not now and not like this, but this is the closest to equilibrium he's felt all year; there's a small, profound _click_ somewhere under his breastbone, as though something missing there has finally been snapped back into place. He finds himself licking his way more deeply into Wesley's obliging mouth, letting his free hand scape against stubble to cup Wesley's jaw.

When Angel finally remembers himself, he pulls back slowly. "Wes, damn it, _Wes_...we can't."

Wesley stiffens in his arms and tries to flounder up and away. "Of course, sorry, no, absolutely," comes rushing from his mouth, slightly less slurred in his distress, as he struggles gracelessly against Angel.

Angel tightens his hold. "Wait, Wes---I didn't mean that I don't want...it isn't that I'm not... You and me? We've got the worst timing in the whole history of ever. We always have." Angel sighs, and Wesley warily stops squirming, but still feels wooden and tense where he rests against Angel. "Look, I want to go there with you. I do. But now isn't the time. I can't explain it yet, but it's really, really not."

Wesley's breath huffs out in a weary half-chuckle that ghosts across Angel's face. "Maybe it _is_ really you after all." He relaxes back into Angel with a sigh. "You're just trying to make me feel better," he accuses, but his tone is fond.

Angel brushes his lips against the furrow in Wesley's brow. "That doesn't make it a lie. But still, is it working?"

Wesley's lashes tickle against Angel's chin as his eyes flutter closed. "Maybe just a little." He nuzzles into Angel's neck slightly, and Angel can't bring himself to let go yet.

With a sudden pang Angel remembers Nina, and thinks about feeling maybe a little guilty. She's a nice woman, an uncomplicated comfort, and they've had a decent time on the few occasions they've seen each other. He does like her, really, but it isn't as though she's Buffy or Cordy or Wes. It doesn't have the gravity of _this_ at all, and she passes back out of his mind easily.

Angel can feel it when Wesley slips into unconsciousness a moment later. He means to get up, carry Wesley to the couch, go back to his own office. Go back to playacting the part of Machiavelli for the spying eyes of the Circle of the Black Thorn. He means to, but still he stays curled around Wesley as the minutes slip past.

"If we get through what's coming, I promise you, we'll have this talk again," he breathes into Wesley's hair. "Preferably when you'll believe that it really happened. And not pass out," he adds with an affectionate rub of his face against the fine, dark strands.

It's nearly dawn when Angel finally leaves Wesley's office. The walk back down the hallway is long, and his own office seems colder than usual. Rationally, Angel knows that the chill leeches Wesley's borrowed body heat out of his own flesh quickly, but he could swear that he can still feel a lingering warmth all day.


End file.
